The Kentucky Fried Star Fox Fic
by Pz.Wulf
Summary: FINALLY UPDATED AGAIN!AGAIN! Fox and his gang of hooligans are back again, and now with even less realization that this was originally going to be some sort of spaghetti western! PG-13, for some language and strong use of dark humor... R&R, Please.
1. Preface, Prologue, Potato Salad

DISCLAIMER! I, the aforementioned and underwritten author of this electronically composed and archived fan fiction am not in any shape, form, or amalgamation the owner or creator any Star Fox Characters, ideas, concepts, planets, stationary, breathing aids, clothing articles, or of the sort. Any similarity between these events, characters, or of such between this electronically composed and archived fan fiction and those of real- life is purely coincidental, and I, though apologetic, am truly laughing at your face. Thank you. END OF DISCLAIMER!  
  
Prologue: Or Sit Down and Shut Up.  
  
Space, in a logical standpoint, is a butt-load of wasted room. As it stretches an infinite distance, one would say that 100% of it is truly nothing more than hard-vacuum and dark matter. But if one were to say that, one would also have to admit that 100% is made of Planets. 100% could also be stars, or black-holes, pulsars, quasars, solar systems, comets broken off from extinct planets and on their way to exact their vengeance upon other planets, planets, moons, moons of planets, moons of moons of planets, planets of moons (as is the case of poor, daft Regederious IV, V, VI, and VIII,) asteroids, bits of rock, dust, and for some odd reason, a giant blueberry muffin that was constructed by the ethnic baker tribes of New Krispo.  
  
But going back to solar systems, this story is about a group of individuals from one such place. The solar system was named Lylat, and its location is roughly thirteen hundred light-years from the bright center of the universe. With that distance, it's a bit of a drive to get back and forth from those two places, but the inhabitants of the former really didn't mind. From the time they were all random bits of DNA floating around in the primordial soup, Lylatians had always been a hardy group. Their evolution was roughly equal to the hairless apes of Earth, but roughly about the time that mammals started popping up and mucking about on the planet, not much difference could be told between the ones who could stand and walk on two feet and think and dance the Charleston (they're now called the "haves") and animals who remained on four or more legs, and usually couldn't do much more than make various noises and large quantities of waste material (called the "have-nots".)  
  
What was there to do? Obviously you couldn't have two giant groups of creatures that look the same, but are not on the same level of capabilities- then, God smiling on the universe lifted His shirt sleeves, cleared His throat, and then it dawned on the author that he had no idea where he was going with all this.  
  
Moving on!  
  
After a period of many, many eons, our story finally comes to present time. Well, present in Cornerian time, which according to the philosophers of the Panzer Switch Sect of Consciousness, will happen on year 3990. However, some other scientists, thinkers, and drunks believe it to already have happened in 1993-1997. Others still, have the idea that it will come to pass whenever the hell it feels like it.  
  
The time doesn't matter much anyway, so forget it.  
  
But to some certain persons, time would be one of their true enemies, if not a very flagrant un-well wisher. Or maybe a well wisher that didn't wish them too much bodily harm. Or something like that. Or  
  
Oh forget it.  
  
BE SURE TO WATCH THIS FIC FOR THE NEXT CHAPTER, AND IF YOU NEED SOMETHING TO DO IN THE MEAN-TIME: HERE'S A SECRET CODE! BE SURE TO HAVE YOUR DECODERS READY!  
  
25-15-21/ 13-9-19-5-18-1-2-12-5/ 23-18-5-20-3-8-5-19!!! 


	2. Now Gentlemen, To Business!

Act, or Skit I  
  
Now, Gentlemen, to Business!  
  
--------------------------------------------------  
  
"Gyroscopic Navigation?"  
  
"Check- Fully Calibrated."  
  
"G-Diffuser?"  
  
"Check- Activated and Stable Output."  
  
"Go Faster Pins?"  
  
"Clamped tightly, and still looking sharp."  
  
"Fuzzy Dice?"  
  
"Securely draped across Rear-View Mirror"  
  
"Plastic Statue of Jesus?"  
  
"Check- Jesus is on the dash, and He's still praying."  
  
"Fish Finder?"  
  
"Check- and we have a group of perch just south of us."  
  
For two hours, Fox and Peppy had been running a diagnostic check on the Arwing of the former, and just as they had suspected, nothing had broken from the day before. As a matter of fact, not much ever really changed much on the Great Fox after Fox had scampered back on after his tom-foolery on Dinosaur Planet. Okay, besides that one time they landed to refuel on Zoness and some little jerk scrawled "Shata Lives!" on the side, with a key, just forward of the main boosters. And then there was that little incident involving the vaporization of an entire herd of cattle due to an unscheduled "buzz-by," but other than that, nothing much had happened.  
  
But, the lack of events happening to the team didn't affect how they lived. Just like before the Androssian war, they did exactly like they did now: slacked off and still managed to get a monthly pension. All they had to do was keep out of trouble, and send in an organized (though usually beefed up) status report. One such report follows:  
  
---------------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
GENERAL PEPPER: So, has the team seen any action in the last week?  
  
FALCO: Er, Action?  
  
GENERAL PEPPER: Yes, action. Y'know, combat, adventure? That sort of action?  
  
FALCO: Oh- Oh yes! Action! Uhm- Pirates! Moose Pirates!  
  
GENERAL PEPPER: Moose Pirates?  
  
FALCO: Oh yes sir! Moose Pirates! I-er, I mean WE believe them to be a splinter group of Venom. They fought fiercely, but we managed to fend them off. Took major damage, and one of the crew was severely injured!  
  
PEPPER: Good Lord! Who was it?  
  
FALCO: The 2nd deputy commander sir, very tragic. He's hanging on by the skin of his teeth, well, he would be if he had any left- uhm- they're all lodged in his brain. Very traumatic, he may not pull through.  
  
PEPPER: 2nd deputy commander? 2nd- wait. Lombardi, YOU'RE the 2nd deputy commander.  
  
FALCO: - Well! Look at that! It's a miracle, I've gotten better! Thank the maker, I'm alive!  
  
PEPPER: Lombardi, this is starting to sound much like the run-in with the Neo-Ducks.  
  
FALCO: The Neo-Ducks! *shudders* don't remind me, such horrible people. I'm glad we didn't leave one alive-  
  
PEPPER: Lombardi- the Neo-Ducks were and ARE a financial group, based in Corneria City. One of them helps me out with my taxes-  
  
FALCO: WOAH! Have to go! Left my waffles in the Dishwasher! *disconnects*  
  
PEPPER: Hurm. Well, it's good they're okay. Time for a lolly.  
  
-------------------------------------------------  
  
Finally, Fox and Peppy finished with their diagnostic check when Krystal came through the rear service entrance of the docking bay/ launch & landing pad/ glorified garage. She was still in her tribal outfit (y'know, the one which would get the person wearing it arrested in a heartbeat on the streets of Corneria city) but seemed to bear no mind to the chilled air of the space-craft.  
  
"Hey love!" she gleefully shouted, then ran to Fox as he busied himself tinkering with his aircraft's workings. "How are you feeling?"  
  
Fox smiled, looking at her. "I'm just fine baby. I'm a little busy at the moment, but I can meet up with you in the viewing deck in just a little while. Is that okay?"  
  
Krystal sighed, and readjusted one of the bracelets on her left arm. "Sure, okay. I'll see you later." She walked off the way she came, and closed the door behind her. Peppy immediately looked back at McCloud.  
  
"What's eating her?" he asked, with a slight bit of trouble due to trying to keep a few screws tightly held in his mouth.  
  
"Oh," Fox started, "She's just a little homesick. The Great Fox is a lot different from Dino Planet, and she's still adjusting. It's a lot like when we let Fara onto the team."  
  
"Fara?" Peppy repeated, "Who's Fara?"  
  
"She's that Fennec Fox that we met back on Corneria, remember? The one with the big ears? Her? She really- well! Speak of the devil!"  
  
Fara had just stormed into the docking bay through the more forward service entrance. She was wearing her Official Cornerian Mercenary outfit (y'know, that ridiculous jumpsuit with the ludicrous white overcoat.) She was furiously muttering curses and random profanity, which made Fox immediately drop his tools (directly onto Peppy's foot) and he jogged up to her.  
  
"What's the matter love?" He asked, giving his most sincere voice. "Is there anything I can do-"  
  
"Shut up McCloud, you know what the matter is." Fara barked, stopping dead in her tracks.  
  
"I do?"  
  
"You kept me up all night with your f*ing speed metal."  
  
"I did?"  
  
"Yes, you f*ing did. Then, after breakfast today, you left the mess hall an utter mess."  
  
"I did that?"  
  
"You F*ing ass, of course you did that! And when I finished cleaning up your disaster area, I open the fridge, and what do I find? What the hell did I find?"  
  
" Food?"  
  
"You f*ing left your f*ing blaster in the fridge, you idiot!!"  
  
"Oh crap! Was that me?"  
  
Fara slapped him across the snout, then slugged him in the gut. He toppled forward, clutching his aching stomach, and grasping for breath shouted "What was that for?"  
  
Phoenix's only response was to walk around the vulpine and give a firm boot up his butt. She then stomped off the way she came, and left Fox sprawled on the ground, moaning and feeling like he was going to vomit up the afore- mentioned breakfast.  
  
Hare slowly walked up to him. "Geez! What's HER problem?"  
  
"Oh *grunt* she's just mad because she's had a lot of work to do and stuff like that."  
  
"Do you think it has anything to do with Krystal being on-board?"  
  
"Nah, they don't even know of each other's existence. If anything, they think I'm just talking about former maintenance providers when I say their names. Well, let's get back to work."  
  
He picked himself up off the deck, and dragged himself across back to the Arwing. The two of them got back to checking the systems.  
  
"Hamster wheel?"  
  
"Check- firmly secured in the cage."  
  
"Air sickness bag?"  
  
"Check."  
  
"Flashy lights?"  
  
"Check."  
  
"Contents of map case?"  
  
"Star charts, scenario protocols, and- what the hell is this?"  
  
"What is it?"  
  
"That's what I just asked."  
  
"Well, what does it look like?"  
  
"Uhm, it's a picture. Er, I think it's Slippy's girlfriend."  
  
Fox plucked the picture out of the cockpit, and gave it to Peppy for the both of them to look at. She relatively attractive (as far as toads go,) and had a rather cute looking head band and a pink dress on. Despite her appearance, the two couldn't help but laughing out loud.  
  
"Wart's got a girlfriend!"  
  
"I can't believe it, slipster's in love!"  
  
"HA!"  
  
"HO!"  
  
"Huh-huh-huh-huh- NNNNNGH!-huh-huh-!"  
  
Fox and Peppy looked over their shoulders, surprised to find a young terran male with a massive forehead, blue T-shirt, and black shorts hunkering in a corner of the docking bay, chortling to himself and seeming rather brain- dead.  
  
"Hmm," Fox said, "I think we need to get better pest-control on this ship."  
  
"Nah," replied Peppy. "We just need to get more in the habit of closing the damn hatch once in a while. Say, where's Falco?"  
  
---------------------------------------------------------------  
  
Falco, with his back to the wall of the below-deck cargo room, shrieked in terror as the Alien stood over him, a foul breath wafting in his face as acidic saliva dripped from the creature's jaws.  
  
----------------------------------------------------------------  
  
"Meh," Fox shrugged. "He's probably okay."  
  
Peppy nodded. Again, they got back to working on the seemlessly endless task of checking the Arwing systems.  
  
"Rotating spinny thing?"  
  
"Check."  
  
"On Duty/ Off Duty sign?"  
  
"Check."  
  
"CD Player?"  
  
Check- with an Alan Parson's project CD still lodged into it."  
  
"Hydraulic lifts?"  
  
"Check this out!"  
  
Fox flipped a switch, and the Arwing proceeded to bounce up and down on it's front landing stilt. Peppy didn't notice this though, as a massive thunderclap boomed across the landing bay. Looking at the middle entrance, he saw Slippy standing in the door-way, cocking a 12 gauge shotgun.  
  
"I-i-i-insulting my g-g-g-girlfriend, eh?" he muttered maniacally. "Take t- t-t-this, f*er!" He fired again, taking a chunk out of the Arwing's port wing.  
  
Peppy groaned, looking at Fox as he attempted to escape the bucking aircraft's cockpit. It was looking to be a massively long day.  
  
NEXT CHAPTER: WILL FREE MEN SUBMIT, OR DO YOU HAVE TO TRICK THEM WITH JOLLY RANCHERS? 


	3. Quick, Get the license of that intergala...

Act or Skit II  
  
Quick, get the license of that intergalactic blimp!  
  
Bill Grey, the young leader of husky squadron, bulldog squadron, Shi-Tzu squadron,  
  
borzoi squadron, and thus pretty much all of Fluffy Dog fighter wing, woke up strapped  
  
to a massive dentist chair-like chair. Not to say it was entirely like a dentist chair, but  
  
it wasn't not entirely like one. Oh my, I've gone and done it again, haven't I?  
  
Anyway, the chair itself wasn't important, but the fact that Bill woke up strapped to it  
  
was. If he had gone to sleep in such a predicament, it would have made more sense, but  
  
he didn't. He had gone to sleep, like most other normal people on Katina, in his own  
  
freakin' bed. This chair obviously wasn't his bed, and although some of the cruder  
  
elements of the squadrons he led would joke otherwise, he never had to be strapped  
  
down to his bed.  
  
"Well, this certainly is interesting," was all Grey could think, realizing the whole  
  
depth of the situation, which was: not only was he strapped in, but his legs were  
  
shackled to the bottom of it. If he wanted to simply get up and walk off, he couldn't. He  
  
COULD attempt to dislocate his wrists and ankles, thus making escape simpler, but hey,  
  
he didn't. I'm trying to be dramatic with a dire situation, damn it. So there he sat,  
  
utterly confused but willing to go along with whatever was going on.  
  
"Ah, it's probably my squadron mates, and they're just pulling a prank. Some one is  
  
going to come in and pretend to torture me! It's almost kind of funny, actually." and he  
  
remained sitting there, smiling without a care in the world.  
  
Suddenly, he heard the unmistakable sound of a door needing WD-40 open behind him.  
  
The measured, heavy footprints didn't remind him of anyone he knew, but then again,  
  
he didn't quite make it a habit of memorizing footprint noises. So he turned his head as  
  
far as he could over his left shoulder, and caught a glimpse of his visitor.  
  
There, in the white light of the doorway, stood Leon Powalski. In one hand, he held a  
  
thermos cup up to his lips, and in another, a piece of paper and what appeared to be a  
  
lunchbox with a Hello-Kitty design on the front.  
  
"Leon? What the hell are you doing here? What the hell am I doing here, for that  
  
matter?"  
  
The lizard raised the spot on his reptilian head where his eyebrows would be, and  
  
nearly spitting out the drink in his mouth, shouted "I thought you would know!"  
  
"What's that supposed to mean?!"  
  
"I was just sitting in the barracks reading, when this guy dressed up like one of you  
  
yokels came up and said come here with this lunch-box and this piece of paper, and you  
  
would tell me what's going on!"  
  
"What?"  
  
"I don't know! Oy, is there anything in here I can sit on?"  
  
Bill glanced around quickly, and noticed the light from the doorway behind him  
  
reflecting off what appeared to be a folding chair.  
  
"I think that's a folding chair over there." he said, nodding his head in the direction of  
  
the light gleam.  
  
"A folding chair? Where?"  
  
"Over there. That folding chair."  
  
"Oh yeah, that folding chair!"  
  
"Yeah, THAT folding chai-  
  
---------------  
  
NOTICE: THE AUTHOR WOULD LIKE TO APPOLOGIZE, IT WOULD SEEM  
  
THAT ONE OF HIS ASSOCIATE CREATORS HAS APPEARED TO HAVE  
  
SIMPLY GONE FUNNY. Y'KNOW, JUST A LITTLE FUNNY. WE SHOULD  
  
HAVE CAUGHT THE SIGNS EARLIER, BUT WERE NOT ALLOWED TO  
  
TAKE ACTION AGAINST HIM BECAUSE OF PROJECT: "CORNERIAN  
  
BOOTSTRAP." (THANK YOU, GENERAL PEPPER.) ANYHOW, THAT  
  
SUB-CREATOR HAS BEEN SACKED. NOW, WE RETURN YOU TO THE  
  
PRE=PLANNED FAN FICTION. THANK YOU.  
  
--------------  
  
So Leon, after setting the chair up next to the other, larger one in which Bill was still  
  
strapped to, slumped down and exhaled sharply. He had the lunchbox resting on his  
  
right leg, and in his left hand, he held the now slightly crumpled piece of paper.  
  
Bill looked inquisitively at the paper, and sheepishly asked: "So, what's that say?"  
  
Leon snorted, and glanced at it. "Uhm, well, this is sort of- uh what?"  
  
"What- is it unintelligible?"  
  
"No, no, it's very easy to make out what it says, it's just that WHAT it says is sort of  
  
interesting. I'm kind of wondering if this is a mistake."  
  
"Well, what does it say?"  
  
Leon cleared his throat. He rolled his head to get a crick out of his neck, cleared his  
  
throat again, popped his knuckles, and cleared his throat again.  
  
"Got a frog in your throat?" Bill asked. "I think I have some cough-drops in my pocket,  
  
I just can't reach it."  
  
"No thanks. I'm just getting over a cold, bloody stupid Venomese High Command. Made  
  
us meet up with our superior officer on Fortuna, cripes that was dumb."  
  
"You should sue."  
  
"I should."  
  
The two nodded for a minute.  
  
"Anyway," Bill asked again, "What does that paper say?"  
  
"Oh right. Okay, it says: `As a matter of building dramatic tension in the electronically  
  
composed and archived fan fiction currently under the title "Smother Mother Epsilon,"  
  
the non-important but pivotal character "Bill Grey" must be tortured by "Leon  
  
Powalski." Emphasis must be made on how "Bill Grey" is suffering at the hands of a  
  
supposedly vile enemy. For further effect, he must begin to ramble incoherently and  
  
perhaps even pray to a made up entity called "black robe spirit," or have an epiphany  
  
that his mother was not as cracked up as she was made to be. Machine tally of a vote  
  
held by Global Carbide and Laundromat of who should be tortured and who should be  
  
torturing whom is as follows:' and it kind of goes on like that for three more  
  
paragraphs."  
  
Bill blinked, swallowed hard, and after a period of awkward silence quipped "You're  
  
kidding."  
  
"Nope, it actually says that."  
  
"Well, that sucks."  
  
"Yeah, I guess it does. Say, I wonder what the deal with the lunch-box is-"  
  
Powalski opened up the red plastic container and looked as carefully as he could at its  
  
contents. It wasn't too pleasant sight, mainly a lot of sharp implements designed to  
  
slash, lacerate, poke, gouge, scratch, thrash, bash, lather, rinse, and repeat.  
  
"I'll be darned. I think it's a torture kit."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Either that, or a really nasty looking sewing kit."  
  
"Hmm."  
  
"Hmm."  
  
Bill stared at Leon. Leon stared at Bill. In the distance, a car door shut.  
  
Bill began (again, he's got a history so far of beginning sayings, doesn't he?) "So, you  
  
have to torture me now?"  
  
"Yeah, hey, do you bleed a lot?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Well, if I'm supposed to be torturing you, I don't want you bleeding all over the place."  
  
"I think if you're going to be doing such a thing, it's kind of a given that I'll be  
  
bleeding, at least a little."  
  
"Okay, well, let's just try something."  
  
"What do you mean try something-"  
  
Before he could finish, Leon had pulled out one of the many, many knives in the  
  
lunchbox and simply cut off the little finger on Grey's right hand.  
  
"Boy, now doesn't that smart!" Bill said, looking at his now deformed hand. "Hmm,  
  
hey, see what happens with the other one."  
  
WHOK  
  
"Huh, nothing. Now isn't that odd, y'know, this all reminds me of something I read  
  
once. It was popular when it came out, but GEEZ! What was it's name?" he lowered  
  
his snout, so the tip of it was nearly touching his chest, like he always did when deep  
  
in thought. "C'mon c'mon c'mon, what was it called?"  
  
Leon, busily digging another tool out of the Hello Kitty lunchbox clicked his tongue  
  
against his teeth for a moment, and offered "I think I know what you're talking about,  
  
er, Soul Train Survivor?"  
  
"No, not that. That one was just really long-winded, er Mamma-Jamma Ocean, I  
  
think."  
  
"Yeah, that sounds right. Yeah, it OH I CAN'T STAND IT! I CAN'T STAND IT  
  
ANYMORE!" he suddenly cried, throwing the lunchbox down onto the floor. "I never  
  
wanted to do this! I, this isn't my calling! I never wanted to do this!"  
  
He fell over sobbing, then picked himself up. Grabbing Bill's collar, he stared into the  
  
husky's eyes, and sobbing even louder proclaimed "I'm not a bad person! People just  
  
keep telling me to do things for payment, and I do them! Oh, I am fortune's fool! I  
  
never wanted to be this anti-Christ-like villain! I never even wanted to be a StarFox  
  
character! Do you know what I wanted to be, Bill? Do you?" he continued staring into  
  
Grey's eyes, giving his best impression of Captain Kirk with hemorrhoids.  
  
"Uh," Bill asked, shifting his eyes around the room now even more confused than ever.  
  
"Uh, what what did you er, want to be, uh, Leon?"  
  
Leon, stood up, sniffing loudly. "I wanted to be- I I i i i-"  
  
Suddenly, Andrew, Pigma, Caiman, and five or so Venomese officers, (all of them in  
  
full dress uniform including peaked cap) ran in and grouped up behind Leon as if they  
  
were posing for a school photograph. Leon puffed his chest out proudly, and boomed:  
  
"I wanted to be a LUMBERJACK!"  
  
From somewhere in the distance, a lively trumpet chorus began. The group continued.  
  
------------------------------  
  
Leon (speaking): Leaping, from tree to tree as they float down the mighty rivers of  
  
Katina, or Macbeth, or some other planet like that! With my best girl at my side! We'd  
  
Sing! Sing! SING!  
  
(Music picks up. Leon starts singing.)  
  
Leon: I'm a lumberjack and I'm okay!/I sleep all night and I work all day!  
  
Pigma, Caiman, Andrew, and officers: He's a lumberjack and he's okay!/ He sleeps all  
  
night and he works all day!  
  
Leon: I cut down trees,/ I eat my lunch/ I go to the lava-try!/ On Wednesdays I go  
  
shoppin',/ and have buttered scones for tea!  
  
Chorus: He cuts down trees,/ he eats his lunch,/ he goes to the lava-try!/ On Wednesdays  
  
he goes shoppin',/ and has buttered scones for tea!  
  
Leon and choir: I'm (He's) a lumberjack and I'm (he's) okay!/ I (he) sleep(s) all night  
  
and I (he) work(s) all day!  
  
Leon: I cut down trees,/ I skip and jump,/ I like to press wild-flowers!/ I put on women's  
  
clothing,/ and hang around in bars!  
  
Choir: He cuts down trees,/ he skips and jumps,/ he likes to press wild- flowers!/ He puts  
  
on women's clothing, and hangs around IN BARS?!!  
  
(choir mills about and yell at each other trying to comprehend what they just sang for a  
  
little bit until music picks up again, then they start singing with the chorus.)  
  
Chorus.  
  
Leon: I chop down trees,/ I wear high=heels,/ suspendies and a bra!/ I wish I'd been a  
  
girlie, just like dear old Andross!  
  
Choir: He cuts down trees,/ he wears high-heels,/ suspendies and A BRA?!!  
  
(they mill about and yell at each other again, but not rejoining to sing even as the  
  
music continues they finally just stomp out. The door slams behind them. Leon runs off  
  
into the shadows, sobbing again.)  
  
Bill: Well, that was sudden. Hey! I've got no little fingers! What the hell?  
  
NEXT CHAPTER: WILL FREE MEN SUBMIT THEIR NAMES OR SHALL  
  
THEY GO SHIRTLESS??!! 


	4. And now, AN INTERMISSION!

Intermission  
  
(note, I wanted to get back into the groove of updating this thing, but not having enough time to throw in a chapter, I decided to actually make the rejected form of the LAST one, and turn it into an intermission. Yes, more spoofing of fan-fics and official mythos, but that's what you're reading this for, aren't you?)  
  
A TYPICAL DAY ON VENOM, AFTER THE SACKING OF THE ENTIRE HIGH ARMY STAFF OF COMMAND AND AFTER THE DISASTEROUS BUT REUNIFYING CIVIL WARS BETWEEN CORNERIA AND KATINA BUT BEFORE THE 3075 BEER HALL PUTSCH, NOT TO BE CONFUSED WITH THE HOHENSTAUFFEN REESTABLISHMENT OF NON LIZARDS IN THE VENOM LANDS OR THE REVOLUTION OF THE MAJOR CITIES, AND DEFINTELY NOT "SOUL SURVIVOR" WITH THAT CRAZY SNIT AND HER POISON ESTROGEN (DON'T ASK.)   
  
Iguana Woman, Working In Her Kitchen: Jason!  
  
Jason (Another Iguana): Yeah?  
  
IW: What do you want with your crepes?  
  
J: Tornab Crab.  
  
IW: The crepes HAVE tornab crab on them!  
  
J: Dammit, what crepes do you have that aren't tornab crab?  
  
IW: Thorntail.  
  
J:, What, Thorntail Crepes?  
  
IW: Uh... yes.. well, it's sorta flatish.  
  
J: It's dead, isn't it?  
  
IW: Well, it was coughing up blood last night.  
  
J: All right, I'll have a thorntail crepe.  
  
ONE THORNTAIL CREPE LATER  
  
J: (putting down fork and knife) Well, that was really horrible.  
  
IW: Oh, you're always complaining!  
  
J: What's for dessert?  
  
IW: Blue fox cake, blue fox sorbet, blue fox pudding, or strawberry tart.  
  
J: (eyes lighten up) Strawberry tart?  
  
IW: Well, it's got SOME blue fox in it.  
  
J: How much?  
  
IW: Four pounds. Rather a lot, really.  
  
J: Well, I'll have a slice without so much blue fox in it.  
  
ONE SLICE OF STRAWBERRY TART WITHOUT SO MUCH BLUE FOX IN IT LATER,  
  
J: Apalling.  
  
IW: Oh, shaddup.  
  
Son: (coming in door) Hi mom, Hi dad.  
  
J: Hello son.  
  
S: There's a dead dog on the porch, dad!  
  
J: Really?  
  
IW: Where's it from?  
  
S: Whaddaya mean?  
  
IW: What's it's planetary species?  
  
S: Well, it looked a bit lower Cornerian and Katinan to me.  
  
J: (getting up and going out the door) I'll go have a look.  
  
IW: I don't know, kids bringin' 'em in here.  
  
S: It's not me!  
  
IW: I've got three of them by the dumpster, and the sanitation crews won't touch 'em!  
  
J: (coming back in) Visipapetoonian.  
  
IW: How do you know?  
  
J: Tattooed on the back of the neck. I'll call Internal Security.  
  
IW: Shouldn't you call the Royal Command?  
  
S: Call the Royal Gestapo!  
  
J: All right. (Shouting) The Royal Gestapo!  
  
(sirens racing up, followed by a gigantic crash) (the Royal Gestapo burst in the door)  
  
Agent: What's all this then, achtung!  
  
IW: Are you the Royal Gestapo?  
  
All the agents: (In unison) Ho, yes!  
  
IW: There's another dead dog on the porch, baron sergeant!  
  
Agent: Uh, Agent Eastapa, madam. I see, ethnic or post-reunification?  
  
IW: How should I know?  
  
A: It's tattooed on the back of their necks. (spying the tart) Hey, is that blue fox tart?  
  
IW: Yes.  
  
A: Disgusting. Right! Men, the chase is on! Now we should all kneel (they all kneel)  
  
All: O Andross, we beseech thee, tell us who killed the mutt! (thunder)  
  
Andross' Floating head: It was me, you idiot! I always done it!  
  
Jason: It's a bit of a farce, but the prejudice of Corneria is to blame.  
  
Agent: Agreed, we'll be charging them too.  
  
J: I'd like you to take the three by the dumpster into consideration.  
  
A: Right, I'll now ask you all to conclude this arrest with a chant towards our emperor.  
  
All: All things bright and beautiful, all planets great and small. All things wise and wonderful, Andross will whack them all. Amen.  
  
AN ACTUAL CHAPTER: LATER! 


	5. Aquaduct Starwolves

Chapter 4:  
  
"Aquaduct Starwolves."  
  
"Did you ever smell burnt hair in the morning? And if so, did you ever slap your head to make sure it wasn't you?"  
  
- Leon Powalski  
  
Pigma, Andrew, and Wolf were sitting in the booth farthest away from the door in Rosie's diner. They were busy shoveling down their food while trying not to look conspicuous (though if I saw a monkey, a wolf, and a pig all sitting down at a table I'm sure I'd want my anti-psychotic dose kicked up a notch.) Andrew let out a large belch, and got back to a point of conversation he had been droning on for quite some time.  
  
"Billy's Battle" he said matter-of-factly, "is all about the author's fascination with torture. The whole story really is nothing more than one, big, torture scene."  
  
Pigma snorted. "No it's not. It's about the main character who has never really seen any combat at first hand, and then he gets captured and-"  
  
"Whoa whoa! Time out truffles- tell that crap to his mother."  
  
Meanwhile, Wolf, who was sitting across from them, was scratching his head and looking at a scrap of paper he had found in the pocket of his brown overcoat.  
  
"Benny ... who the fark is Benny?" he muttered. "Benny ... Benny ... think ... Benny ... "  
  
Andrew didn't pay attention, but kept going.  
  
"It's not about the coming of age of the main character. Now granted that's what "Warmth in a Cold Spleen" is about, no argument about that.  
  
Pigma cocked his head to the side. "Which one is "Warmth in a Cold Spleen?"  
  
"You don't remember "Warmth in a Cold Spleen?" That was a real big one for K. Wolfmann. Hell, I don't even follow this Most Reviewed Fic crap, and I've at least heard of "Warmth in a Cold Spleen."  
  
"Look jerk," snapped Pigma, jutting his finger at Andrew. "I didn't say I ain't read it. All I asked was how does it go? Excuse me for not being the system's biggest K. Wolfmann fan."  
  
Wolf now had managed to start chewing on his pen, and between chomping on that and reading the paper he added "I like his early stuff. You know, "Grey Poupon's Arrival," "Grey Poupon's Arrival II," but once he got into his "Reflections of a Heretic" phase, I don't know, I tuned out.  
  
Andrew grimmaced at his leader. "Hey, screw that. I'm making a point here. You're gonna make me lose my train of thought."  
  
Wolf didn't answer back, but muttered: "Oh crap, Benny's that dipstick Papetoonian ..."  
  
"What's that?" asked Pigma with a mouthful of pork chop.  
  
"I found this scrap in my pocket, I haven't seen this in a good long while. Benny what? What was his last name?" Wolf went back to scratching his head, and chewing his pen.  
  
"Where was I?" said Andrew aloud.  
  
Pigma looked back over his shoulder. "You said "Warmth in a Cold Spleen" was a coming of age story, but "Billy's Battle" was just an overglorified torture scene."  
  
"Let me tell ya what "Billy's Battle's" about. It's about some scass who's a regular murder machine. I mean all the time, morning, day, night, afternoon, death, death, death, death, death, death, death, death, death, death, death.  
  
"How much death is that?"  
  
Wolf added his input again. "A lot."  
  
Andrew nodded, and then turned back to Dengar. "Then one day he gets his hands on a real mofo, and it's like whoa momma! This jerk is a real pushover, he makes Pee=Wee herman look like a serious competitor. Now he's getting this serious maim action, he's feelin' something he ain't felt forever. An actual fic he's gonna get replies to."  
  
Wolf muttered to himself again. "Drew? Benny Drew? No."  
  
"It's good. It's a real eye catcher. It shouldn't be, this sorta thing is the kinda thing people turn away from, but when it's done and everything's splattered here and you, it sells. It sells like a real mofo. The great popularity is a real conquest of sorts. Hence, "Billy's Battle."  
  
"Wong?"  
  
Andrew again snapped at his leader, nearly throwing the napkin dispenser at him. "Screw you, wrong. I'm right! What do you know about it anyway? You're still reading Leopard-Freakin'-Lancaster."  
  
Wolf snapped back "Not wrong, dipstick. Wong! You know, like the Papetoonian name?"  
  
Pigma shook his head and snatched the piece of paper from O'Donnell's hand. Wolf glared, his mouth hanging open slightly.   
  
"What d'you think you're doin'?!" he shouted. "Give that back!"  
  
Pigma just growled, looking at the scrap. "I'm sick of freakin' hearin' it, Wolf. I'll give it back when we leave."  
  
"What do you mean `When we leave?!' Give it back now."  
  
"For the past fifteen minutes now, you've just been droning on with names. "Benny Benny Benny. Benny Wong. Benny Wong? Benny O'Leary. Freakin' Fox McCloud. I got K. Wolfmann's death scenes outta my right ear, and Benny Pape I-don't-know-what, outta my left!"  
  
"What do you care?"  
  
"When you're annoying as all get out, I care a lot."  
  
"Give me that ... er ... gimme that scrap."  
  
"You gonna put it away?"  
  
"I'm gonna do whatever I wanna do with it."  
  
"Then I'm just gonna jam it up my snout."  
  
At that moment, the waitress came over. She was a tall, atractive mink, and from what Wolf could tell she seemed about 25-30 years old. Wolf started smiling, and sat up a bit straighter when she came back. She smiled back.  
  
"You boys doin' okay?" she asked, pushing her chewing gum to the side of her mouth with her tongue. "Can I get you anything?"  
  
Wolf looked at his wingmen. Andrew shook his head, but Pigma's eyes brightened.   
  
"You got any pumpkin pie?" he asked. Wolf could already see beads of spit dribbling out the corner of Dengar's mouth.  
  
"Sure do," said the waitress taking a few steps backwards. "Would you like it a'la mode?"  
  
Pigma didn't say anything, but let out what seemed to be a high pitched squeal. The mink stopped chewing her gum, turned on one heel, and walked as quickly as she could back to the kitchen.  
  
Andrew and O'Donnell stared at the pig as he stared at the nurse going away. After a few moments, Wolf turned to Oikonny.   
  
"You know, on Katina, they don't call it pie a'la mode." he said.  
  
"Really." Andrew said. "What do they call it?"  
  
"Pie with whipped cream."  
  
"Huh, do they have tornab crab?"  
  
"Yeah, " Wolf said, raising an eyebrow to add emphasis. "But they call it King Crab."  
  
"Pfft. King Crab."  
  
NEXT CHAPTER: I'M SO VERY VERY TIRED! 


	6. The Plot Thins

Act or Skit IV  
  
"The Plot's as Thick as this Paper Now."  
  
It was morning again, or a close facsimile caused by the automatic timing of the overhead florescent lights to resemble morning light. Fox wearily dragged himself out of his bunk in his private room, and hauled himself down the corridors to the mess hall, putting his white over-jacket on slowly as he trudged along. Because of a sinus infection he was suffering from, he could barely smell the strong aroma of the cheap coffee bubbling in the pot, or the artificial egg substance frying on the electric hot plate.  
  
He pulled himself into the galley, and realized immediately something was amiss. The single polymer and steel table that dominated room was broken in the middle, but it was possible for someone to sit right on the end. The walls were completely splattered with various liquids, many seeming to leave permanent stains. Wolf O'Donnell leaned on the side of the open refrigerator, staring deep in thought as he puffed away at a cigarette. Finally, McCloud realized what was wrong.  
  
"We've really got to get in the habit of shutting that stupid thing," he thought to himself, as he walked over. Shutting the door, he glanced over at Wolf, who glanced over at him, and gave a quick nod of greeting.  
  
"Oh, hey Wolf," said McCloud. "What are you doing here?"  
  
Wolf moved the smoldering butt in his mouth over to the other side of his snout to ease in his conversing. "I joined back in chapter three, remember?"  
  
"You did?"  
  
"Yeah, don't you recall the huge shouting match, the gunplay, and the horse going through the paper folder?"  
  
"Not entirely sure that I do O'Donnell, think you could relate it all again?"  
  
So Wolf went through the entire fan fiction again, at least up to this point. When he was finished, Fox stared at him blankly, shrugged, and then pointed at the cigarette.  
  
"You got another one of those?" he asked, all of a sudden seeming to grow very fond of the noxious, unattractive hobby.  
  
"Sure thing," Wolf said, pulling a pack of Lucky Camels out of his jacket pocket. "I'm sure you have your own light."  
  
So Fox took the nasty thing and sat down on the aforementioned end of the table, balancing out his weight to make sure the rest wouldn't fold in and take him along with. The two canines continued staring into space because it was just that kind of story (you know; long, psychological, very hard to jump in after the beginning and have any hope in hell to realize what was going on.) They continued that way for what seemed a very long time, but then they both heard a muffled, shuddering BOOM noise come from Slippy's bedroom and they both looked at the doorway leading to the hallway.  
  
Just then, Fara stepped in, holding a large, smoking revolver, and wearing blue jeans, a white tank top, and a black leather jacket instead of her normal pilots attire. She glanced around the mess hall, and finally blurted: "Wot?"  
  
Fox made a face of rather frustrated confusion, and then asked: "What's with the gun?"  
  
"Oi, I just shot oul' slipster. He was lookin' me up and down all pre- verted as you please so I pulled out the .357 maggie and gave him what for."  
  
"Oh, that's all?" added Wolf, slipping into an even more relaxed pose on the fridge. "I was afraid you had gone and done something drastic."  
  
"Naw naw naw, it's not in me blood. Say, could I pinch of those fags?"  
  
Wolf looked at Fox, who looked at Fara, and uttered "What's with the really fake accent?"  
  
"Oh, you listen boy bach, I say if that the Cyclops could use to get away with sounding like a half-arsed kraut, I say I should bloody well get away with a terrible, muddled, Englaish accent. 'Sides, th'author doesn't have half a clue what he's doin' with dialogue, and he's just some wee runt who probably drinks the gas straight from the pump."  
  
Meanwhile: The author, feeling hopelessly dejected and wondering just how in the world one of his own stories ended up making fun of himself, went to his room with a full pack of King Dongs and wouldn't come out for hours.  
  
Besides, he only drank from the pump once. While writing this thing, he only chug-a-lugged mouthwash.  
  
Dammit.  
  
Wolf finally shrugged, and passed a cigarette to Phoenix, who grasped it in her mouth and lit it with a match she struck on her jacket sleeve.  
  
"Thanks, luv." Fara said. "I owe you one."  
  
"So," Fox asked after some time. "What's with the . er . getup?"  
  
"Oh, this?" she said, raising her eyebrows. "I just thought I'd try somethin' new for a tad. You like?" she swiveled around as if she was showing a new dress.  
  
Wolf nodded. "It's quite attractive, a lot better than those screwy elbow- length gloves."  
  
"Aye, I threw those in the ash can. Had a bitta hard time gettin' rid o'them, but yeh know, in with the new, out with the old."  
  
"Agreed. So. what now?"  
  
All three of them stared into space again, because it's just that kind of fic. It's light hearted, yes, but you see, it's all so dramatic when you look in the subtle meanings. For instance, you know that one story with the terrorists and Fox and Wolf getting to know each other? I mean. REALLY getting to know each other? If you look at all the psychological undertones, it's all about one thing: revenge.  
  
The seething, dominating desire for hardcore vengeance that brushes away all the precedents and ends up a shining, incandescent ball of fire, burning and searing the common held truths and practices held very deal to the old guard, the bourgeois, the social upper class who cluck their tongues, stroke their beards, and say "What's to be done with this pack of beatniks?"  
  
But then again, it's probably more of just a story of Fox and Wolf doing horrible things.  
  
You didn't hear me say that.  
  
More time passed, and finally, Falco and Krystal walked into the room, hand and hand.  
  
"Well look at the Mistah and Missus Lombardi!" Fara chimed in.  
  
"Wait," Fox said looking around and being even more confused than he thought was possible for him. "What do you mean Mrs. Lombardi?" "Don't you know you senseless twit?" sneered Fara. "They bloody got married in chapter eight. Don't you remember?"  
  
"Wait, did he run into the wedding chapel, pounding on the glass and going `Mrs. What's Your Face! Mrs. What's Your Face!' and they ran out and caught a bus and you and I actually got married in chapter seven, although it was never mentioned and is only referred to, hoping the audience puts two and two together?"  
  
"Yes. That'd be right."  
  
"Okily doke. Well, I'm just going to sit here and hope that this all blows over before someone ends up dead-"  
  
Falco interrupted. "Oh hey, Slip's dead. Someone shot him."  
  
"That was me, guv," Fara said, giving a firm nod.  
  
"Yep, it was her," assured Wolf.  
  
"Ah crap," said Fox. "Well, we need to get on with this fic, let's say we get on with a point to this chapter."  
  
WE NOW INTERUPT THIS PROGRAM TO BRING YOU SOME ADVERTISING YOU OBVIOUSLY DON'T REALLY CARE ABOUT, BUT YOU MUST SEEING AS HOW YOU HAVEN'T LEFT THE FICTION YET.  
  
(General Pepper is sitting at his desk, moving uncomfortably in his seat.) Narrator: You're supposed to be leading the largest armed force that the Lylat system has ever seen, but you're twitching from the itching, squirming from the burning. (Pepper looks at the camera with a grimace: ) Pepper: I should have used Preparation- H.  
  
NEXT CHAPTER: TO THE BOWELS OF THE PITS OF SOMEWHERE! 


	7. Tragic, no?

Act or Skit VI  
  
"Why Act or Skit V never really mattered."  
  
Everyone who was mentioned in the last chapter now all gathered on the bridge. Ahead of them through the view-screen, the Lylat system and all fourteen of its Triple A recognized wonders spread out from them. It was a beautiful sight and all recognized its sheer awesomeness by nodding or muttering words of positive confirmation when Katt pointed out the very middle front and said "Oh my God! I can see my house!"  
  
(It should be known that Katt, despite her well respected and known position with the Cornerian military ((I guess you could say that about her, her being a mercenary and all)) she lived out of her fighter jet rocket thing and when she pointed at it, it had broken out of the hanger and was floating away, now a fifty million piece of space rubbish (((Just like Sputnik 12, jammed full of Russian clowns just to see if it was possible to send up a space-probe equivalent of a clown car))) ((((It is.)))) )  
  
So everyone breathed in, and they all breathed out. The cycle of respiration thus being completed for the umpteenth thousand time in a row that day, someone got it in their head to look around the room, and finally ask: "Hey, where's Peppy?"  
  
"I don't know," said Fox. "Hey Fara, you didn't shoot him too, did you?"  
  
Fara shook her head. "Naw guv'nor, I didn't harm a hair on the little bittah. He prob'ly ran off when the Vikings came in last night, and he's probably having himself a wee bit of a holiday on some nasty planet. Oul' Pepster was likely to do as such an'ways, fartin' codger he was."  
  
"If I understood a single word you just said, I'd probably agree," said Fox, attempting to comprehend.  
  
"You know," Wolf said. "We seem to be agreeing a lot with each other recently. Is there some sort of trend going around that we've all clamped onto?"  
  
"Perhaps," added Krystal. "Remember back when plastic jewelry, flip-flops, and talking to everyone by saying what you were doing at the exact moment was popular?"  
  
Everyone sighed, remembering the warmish thoughts of their childhood. Their great, shining pasts, their . uh . well, whatever they were, they sure seemed a lot less stark and cold and dark than their surroundings. Maybe if they went away from outer space for a while, perhaps it would help? Or maybe if they put up some nice wall rugs, maybe some track lighting, oh yeah. It'd be pretty damn ghetto, if you ask me. Great Pimpmobile, ch'yeah buddy! No one would mess with them then, no sir! Because if you mess with the storm, the storm will bite, and this storm rocks! It'll rock you-  
  
LIKE A HURRICANE!  
  
*cough*  
  
So anyway, they were all remembering their pasts when Fox turned to Wolf, and with a great deal of gusto, with expression, with enough inflection to blow the socks off his seventh grade speech teacher, he mumbled: "Hey Wolf?"  
  
Wolf looked over. "Yes Fox?"  
  
"What's up with your story. I mean, what's your orgin?"  
  
"Uh, it's kind of long. Are you sure you really want to hear it?"  
  
"Sure guv," interrupted Fara. "We'd all love to hear a nice wee yarn. Mayhaps you can tell us all why you're so screwed up, what with the eye patch and all."  
  
Wolf nodded.  
  
{Cue Dreamy, Animated Hobbit Movie Music.}  
  
"I was born Wolf Prosinias Kluge Vallas O'Donnell on the fourth day of the fourth month on the 3372nd year of our Lord in a dreary little city on Katina. My parents, Jerel and Claudia O'Donnell had already given birth to my older brother, Frederick, who at the time was older by Seven years-"  
  
A sudden, unexpected gasp came from everyone else in the room. Wolf stopped, and glanced around the bridge, recognizing immediately the sudden reaction. For you see, Frederick O'Donnell, his older brother, was probably the biggest jerk in the Cornerian Military. He was a bomber pilot, and waving the pilot's code of ethics bye-bye a long time after a brief stint at a prison camp, he constantly hit on any passing women, he smoked like a chimney, he cussed like a veteran astronaut, and the worst, absolute worst thing he did, I mean, this is really heinous-  
  
He stole pens from his wing commander's office.  
  
Any way you look at it, if you dissected his years of a strenuous childhood. If you examined his past and psychological condition, you'd have a sense of pity, but then you realize that nobody needs somebody else's pens. Frederick, Fred to everyone who knew him, was a dick.  
  
(Frederick!  
  
Frederick is his first and legal name!  
  
Frederick -in his mind he likes to play card games!  
  
When your name is Frederick you're a jerk so people think,  
  
And they're so very right, you're Frederick!  
  
But being a jerk is right and so you're cool again, which is the jerkiest thing of all!  
  
Do you find his irate ways invite you?  
  
Does he excite you?  
  
If his profane spasms should attract you, should he distract you-  
  
Heaven help you!  
  
Then you're finished, it's the end-  
  
There'll be no damn end to his damn tirades-  
  
The tirades he will do.  
  
He's Frederick!  
  
Frederick O'Donnell!  
  
His name is Frederick! )  
  
Wolf cleared his throat, and began again:  
  
"When I grew up, my mother simply vanished. I don't know why, she just did. Maybe she went out for milk one day and ended up in Port Asbestos? Maybe she fell into a giant plothole? Who knows, anyway, she was gone.  
  
"My father was left alone to raise me, and not being the greatest of social minds, he decided that I should grow up to be a legendary scoundrel. He started me off light, training me to steal candy bars from stores, and finally, I ended up .  
  
". constant alterations. Adrift in a sea of depression, I wandered to back alleys, finding pleasure in any company .  
  
". made it with a lawyer .  
  
". cooler by the lake. And as it came to pass , all the city and sky became one, merging into a single plane, a vast sea of unbroken grays ...  
  
" . wife cleaved out my eye with a piece of glass. She was lovely, and I loved her, and we loved to be loved by one another, but that was the end .  
  
" . but made a target of myself for some very powerful men, and as my world came crashing down around me, I was left to decide what was real, and what was right."  
  
O'Donnell finished his story and closed his good eye. A single, fat tear rolled out of it, joining the bevy of other damp eyes in the audience. He had bared his soul, and told all that was deeply important and sacred to him. The one eyed lupine no longer seemed an abstract ne'er do well, but a real person with a heart and a soul. All in the room who knew him now, now truly knew him.  
  
They truly knew him to be a long winded, boring boring boring boring boring BORING story teller who probably went into sob stories when explaining the lateness of his taxes to the Internal Money Grubbers.  
  
Fox blew his snout loudly into a monogrammed handkerchief. "Wolf?" he sobbed, trying to keep his throat from blurting out random noises.  
  
"Yes, Fox?"  
  
"That's three hours of my life I'm never getting back. If you ever do that again, I swear to everything holy I'll throw you out the airlock."  
  
Wolf's tears immediately sucked back into his tear ducts, and the Great Fox sailed on, even more.  
  
Wow, this was a real boring chapter, wasn't it? 


End file.
